happened around here; and one can easily imagine droves of miserable,
half-clad Indians, perched on top, looking with doleful, melancholy
expression on the surrounding wilderness of waters. Arriving at Granger,
for dinner, I find at the hotel a crest-fallen state of affairs somewhat
similar to the glumness of Tacoma. Tacoma had plenty of customers, but
no whiskey; Granger on the contrary has plenty of whiskey, but no
customers. The effect on that marvellous, intangible something, the
saloon proprietor's intellect, is the same at both places. Here is plainly
a new field of research for some ambitious student of psychology. Whiskey
without customers. Customers without whiskey. Truly all is vanity and
vexation of spirit.

Next day I pass the world-renowned castellated rocks of Green River, and
stop for the night at Rock Springs, where the Union Pacific Railway
Company has extensive coal mines. On calling for my bill at the hotel
here, next morning, the proprietor - a corpulent Teuton, whose thoughts,
words, and actions, run entirely to beer - replies, "Twenty-five cents a
quart." Thinking my hearing apparatus is at fault, I inquire again.
"Twenty-five cents a quart and vurnish yer own gan." The bill is abnormally
large, but, as I hand over the amount, a "loaded schooner" is shoved
under my nose, as though a glass of beer were a tranquillizing antidote
for all the ills of life. Splendid level alkali flats abound east of
Rock Springs, and I bowl across them at a lively pace until they terminate,
and my route follows up Bitter Creek, where the surface is just the
reverse; being seamed and furrowed as if it had just emerged from a
devastating flood. It is said that the teamster who successfully navigated
the route up Bitter Creek, considered himself entitled to be called "a
tough cuss from Bitter Creek, on wheels, with a perfect education." A
justifiable regard for individual rights would seem to favor my own
assumption of this distinguished title after traversing the route with